Vigilant by Hth "Coffee?" "Thank you." Giles didn't look up. In fact, he closed his eyes, and it didn't make much difference. Bloody lurking blackbird, his coat rustling softly, sensuously around him each time he moved. Her dark prince, her soft-eyed savior, her tormented knight. Rupert Giles could still see him everywhere he went. When he had to open his eyes to drink the coffee, they went instinctively to Angel. He was right where he belonged, leaning against the glass that separated their sterile white hallway from the sterile white hospital room. He was always that way, come to it, wasn't he? Just on the other side of the glass, near to her but not with her. Watching her, like a guardian angel. Or a dog. The hound of hell. "It's getting late, Angel. You should go home." His fingers stroked the glass, running against the pattern of the copper diamonds etched there. "I can't." "Oh, for God's sake. Theatrical bastard. You can't very well stay here, can you?" "Get the doctor. Talk to the doctor again." "Angel, really--" "I want to talk to the doctor, Rupert!" His eyes were so intense when he frowned, like each night of Angel's two hundred years, layered one on top of the other. Words failed him. Ah, young love. Young? Angel was so old, endless years and nights. And on the other hand, how well he matched Buffy. She had an unnatural age to match his unnatural youth, his strange but frustratingly endearing faith. "Angel. Please try to be calm. I assure you that someone will be here at all times until she wakes, and in the meantime, you...are who you are." Dreadful ending. But there it was. Angel drew on his silence like a second overcoat, becoming blank and sober. Real angels, from all that Giles had read, were equally alien, full of God's love but inexorably inhuman, devoid of such virtues as affection or passion. Angel could seem that way. He had been affectionate with Rupert Giles once, those lips soft as steam on his lips. He had been -- *God help me* -- passionate. Giles sighed, and took another sip of his coffee. "Do come on, Angel. I'll drive you." "Are you patronizing me?" "No, you irritating bastard, I'm driving you home." "Home. Yeah, home. Home sweet cemetery." He had never been much for humor -- neither was Buffy, but Angel was worse; what a bleak private life they must have, with neither Xander's wit nor Willow's winsome earnestness to break the monotony of the grief and regret. Or perhaps she found it as painfully sweet as Giles himself did, that gentle sobriety that shadowed occasionally into wryness. He tossed the rest of his coffee. "It's time." "Who's the next shift?" "Oz. He recently ended a performance." Angel nodded, apparently satisfied with the arrangements being made for Buffy's vigil. A man who was careful of Angel's well-being, who kept the vampire first in his thoughts at all times, could hope for as much. Could hope to keep him satisfied, away from the cliff's edge. He could never hope to please him -- sad-eyed, demon-plagued, lovely Angel. No, only she could do that. Giles cast one more look through the glass as he donned his spectacles. Buffy was resilient; she was the Slayer. Besides, he had Angel to do the lion's share of his worrying for him. Angel sat beside him in the car, slumped low in the seat as though he were pouting. Not pouting, Giles amended. Brooding. The gravel ground under his tires as the car eased to a stop in front of Angel's mausoleum, but Angel didn't stir, even when Giles put on the parking brake. Nothing to do but sit in a graveyard at nearly five in the morning, watching his ex-lover in the green glow of the dashboard display. Were those shirts really back in style, wide-cuffed silk shirts in rich colors, or did Angel just have the dated tastes of most vampires? Trust Angel to be impeccably dressed in any decade, choosing the fashions most likely to become appealing again twenty years later. "If you think the day will pass more easily, I would be happy to bring you something to help you sleep, once the chemist's is open." Abruptly, Angel moved. Giles lost first the rhythm of his breathing, then his breathing entirely, as Angel leaned against his side, his weight heavy along Giles, pressing his ribs slightly inward. It was almost pain. "There, ah -- there now," he said uncertainly, with a single awkward pat to Angel's knee. "Cautiously optimistic, remember? And that's without factoring a Slayer's strength into the equation." "If only I could be there. If only I could be one of them, with her whenever she needed--" "Well, we...we each serve a different function. She has certain -- female things that she might discuss with Willow, but not with me, merely as an example. You and I...." It had been so long since Giles had cause to say those words to Angel, for any reason, that it temporarily caused him to lose his focus. "You are her lover; your responsibility is to love her. I am her Watcher--" "Not anymore. Whose responsibility is it to watch her now? That Wesley?" Over Giles' dead body. "Everyone's. It is everyone's responsibility, and none of us could manage it alone, twenty-four hours a day." "But I'm the one who's obsessed, Rupert. What am I supposed to do with my time, if not watch her?" In spite of his plaintive question, Angel was relaxing, stretching inch by long inch across the passenger seat, his boots on Giles' upholstery, his knees against the door handle. Giles couldn't resist resting his hand against Angel's substantial chest. "Drive." The silk shirt slipped back and forth against Angel's flesh; Giles wasn't moving his fingers intentionally, but it was impossible to keep still. "You don't own a car." "No, I was talking to you. You drive." "It's nearly morning." "A good hour left. Just drive." He sighed, but not with as much genuine impatience as he had been trying to muster. Turning the key in the ignition would require moving his right hand; that did elicit a sigh. Anyone with an ounce of sense would have tried to reason with Angel, but how far had sense ever gotten Giles, anyway? Almost three years after taking on his current -- recently current, at any rate -- duties, here he was. "Responsible, educated,sensible Rupert Giles," he muttered blackly, and he twisted the key so sharply that he was briefly afraid he would hear it snap. The car jumped startled to life. "And what are we on about now, hmm?" They weren't even out of the cemetery drive yet, but Giles stepped on the brake, bringing them up short as quickly as they'd pulled out. Angel shifted slightly, but his natural grace prevented him from tumbling unceremoniously onto the floorboard. He lifted his chin, looking upward in Giles' direction with only a hint of puzzled annoyance. "Stop that. I'm not going to drive you anywhere while you -- do that." After a moment, Angel shook his head. "No. Still not following." Maybe he didn't know. Who really listened to his own voice, after all? And Angel was tired. "Nothing, it's -- not important. Where shall we go?" Angel shrugged, his head moving a little against Giles' thigh. Giles never drove with the radio on; he liked the quiet. But now he had that voice rolling around in his head, that rumbling Irish brogue that Angel used to slip into when he wanted to tease Giles out of a dreadful-Americans mood and into a rousing Irish-versus-English debate. He spun the dial, letting static and popular music fly past until he found someone playing Glueck. Naturally, Angel would not stand for it. "Rupert, turn that off." "Glueck." "I'm trying to clear my head, Rupert. Could we have a little quiet?" Arguing with Angel was a losing proposition. "Turn it off yourself." A convertible was overtaking them on an otherwise empty street, preparing to pass, and for a moment Giles was afraid it was Xander's. It was not. Angel waited patiently until the sports car was out of their path. His hand covered the back of Giles' hand, left over right. Angel had the much larger hand; it wrapped easily around Giles', and Giles could only sit there, as useless as a scarecrow, and try to keep the car on the road as Angel lifted his hand and pressed the tip of his index finger to the power button on the radio. "Was that so hard?" "Hmph." Instead of releasing him, Angel pulled Giles' hand along like a security blanket, tucking Giles' arm under his and pressing the captive hand flat to his body, against the borderland between Angel's ribcage and his navel. Giles nipped at his tongue, the pain keeping him marginally sharp and attentive to the road, even as the feel of being caught between Angel's strong hand and Angel's silk shirt pulled his attention away. If Angel were human, Giles' hand would be rising and falling above his diaphraghm as it drew in air and pushed it out. Angel was not, of course, and his torso was still muscle under that deceptively soft layer of flesh; Giles had always loved that slight roundness to Angel's body, the rightness, the completion of solid bones, weighty muscle, and substantial meat. "Meat" -- an undignified, slightly insulting term for something that felt so good. Carnal -- from the Latin, *carnus,* meat. Carnal desires. Carnal knowledge. "Angel. Stop this." Angel's hand pulled away, rising straight up like a marionette drawn by its strings. "Don't leave, though," he murmured, and Giles wondered if the vampire knew he was now being held by persuasion more significant than a thousand kilos of pressure on his hand. Whatever else had come and gone between them, Angel had always trusted Giles; there was some kind of kinship there, of age or guilt or merely their shared vigilance over Buffy. And Giles -- well, he had always wanted to trust Angel, though he couldn't honestly say he'd always succeeded. That came of being mortal, he supposed, and inherently more vulnerable around Angel than the reverse. As empty as the streets of Sunnydale were at 5:03 in the morning, the few cars they did see, milkmen and fast-food cooks on their way to begin breakfast and God knew who else, made Giles distinctly uncomfortable. He made a turn, and then another, stopping dutifully at each flashing red light. The bronzed streaks in Angel's messy hair glowed dark and metallic in the wash of red, an eerie effect that made Giles think of brothels and hell, though maybe not in that particular order. He was glad to get out of the city proper, shaded by trees from the starlight as he cruised a California backroad, his twice-dead ex-lover's belly not moving underneath his hand. "Do you want to stop?" he asked as they neared an exit that Giles knew would bring them toward the highway and doubtless a convenience store or ten. "What for?" "Call to check in with--" "*Drive,*" Angel croaked. Giles stepped hard on the accelerator, but once more he failed to send Angel slamming against the dashboard. Angel's way, then. It always *was* Angel's way, wasn't it? *Drive* and Rupert Giles drove. *Listen* and he did. *Tell her* and faithful Rupert Giles carried the message. *Kiss me* -- *don't leave me* -- *fuck me* -- *please me* -- yes, Angel. Yes, Angel. *Forgive me.* Yes, Angel. Damn you, Angel, you bloody walking menace, yes. For everyone's sake, Giles hoped Buffy was more capable of resisting Angel's overpowering charm than he was. Probably. Even Angel was not a weakness for Buffy. Nothing was, really. She was bred to endure and win. Giles was just bred to know things. Forgiveness was something Giles had given without being asked. He didn't recall Angel ever asking for that, any more than he recalled saying the words aloud. Nonetheless, there was no bitterness left, nothing but a vague sense of guilt, the last lingering scent of Jenny in his life, an unreasoning ghost who wished to know why Giles' hand was gliding slowly up this man's chest, the chest she had been pressed to as her life ended in fear and a loud cracking noise and darkness. A groan interrupted his dull, dispassionate self-punishment, a buttery, rumcake sound from Angel that put the torch to Giles, sending him up in flames of need. His thumb pressed down into Angel's left nipple and twisted there. Angel flung one arm over the back of the seat. "Rupert--" "Shut up. I said I'd drive you, not carry on a conversation." "I--" "Just let it go, Angel." He did not hear anything in his own voice, neither guilt nor longing. His hand slipped across Angel's body, burrowing between coat and silk, cupping Angel's shoulder. Christ. The memory of holding Angel by the shoulders was amazingly bright in his mind, his thumbs lying along the topography of Angel's collarbone, his fingers brushing the back of Angel's neck as Angel gazed down from astride him with ageless and observant eyes. It was vivid enough to put everything else to shame -- his desperate ruttings with Ethan (God, how wicked they'd thought they were being, back then) seemed a million years ago, and his elaborate, carefully constructed fantasies about Xander suddenly became as diffuse and fragile as a half-remembered dream. Only Angel was real. In Giles' mind it was his tongue, not his fingertips, snaking up Angel's neck, brushing against the sluggish, undead pace of the blood beating in Angel's jugular vein. Angel had a heartbeat, a faint and slow one, laboriously pushing other people's blood through his body. His fingernail scraped Angel's skin as the pad of one finger slid behind Angel's ear, tracing it upward. Angel shuddered. Giles had not even known a vampire could do that. Suddenly, there was an element of unfamiliarity here that Giles did not care for. Reliving their dead affair was one thing, but gaining an entirely new piece of information about Angel's sexual responses was something else. It brought everything out of the past -- and made Giles far too eager to see if he could make Angel do it again. He had never seduced Angel before, and damned if he intended to start tonight. Giles returned his hand to Angel's neck, finding what he thought was a comparatively innocent position, cradling his neck in his palm with a light, possessive touch. "Let me guess." The sardonic tone was not typical of Angel; Giles told himself it was not typical of the erstwhile Angelus either, but he was not entirely sure he had himself convinced on that score. "You have a girlfriend. No. Wait. *I* have a girlfriend. So good of you to remember." "Don't be a prick." "Then don't be a monk. What's the use, Rupert? No, I'm seriously asking you: What is my reward for staying pure for her? If I'm *lucky,* I'll get to see her age and die, instead of just die. And if I'm *lucky,* and she lives a few more years, she'll fall in love again -- listen, don't think that living in this little fairy tale for three years has made me forget two hundred and fifty years of how the real world works. And don't ask me to feel guilty, now that I think I'm ready to deal with the fact that she has a future that isn't about me." "I'm not asking you to feel guilty." "No. You're feeling guilty for both of us." Quietly, Giles lied, "I do not feel guilty." "Okay. In that case, you're going the completely wrong fucking direction." Giles knew he wasn't talking about north on this particular blacktop road. Unbidden, his eyes followed the sweep of Angel's body in the opposite direction of his hand's motion, until jade-green silk disappeared and all he could see was the nothingness that was, he knew, the light-soaking black of leather in the pre-dawn darkness. "By the way, where are we?" No idea, but damned if Giles was going to admit it. "I'm taking you to a motel." Angel lifted his head to give Giles an inquisitive look. "You, ah -- you were complaining about the cemetary. Change of pace might do you good." The motel he found on the highway was the Millersburg Days' Inn. Giles slid his American Express across the counter, trying to ignore the furtive, suspicous glances of the graveyard-shift employee. It probably did look dreadful, two men coming in before first light with not so much as a backpack, let along luggage. Angel was certainly handsome enough to make a living in motel rooms, but he was hovering now with his best stormcloud look and probably put the hapless clerk more in mind of a drug dealer than a hustler. He signed the guestbook Joseph Angel, Giles declined a second key to the room, and they made their escape. Everything in the motel room was bolted down, from the television to the ink pen and telephone book on chains. Even the heavy curtains were fixed by metal rings to a bar below the window as well as above; Angel tugged gently on them, then nodded in satisfaction. Angel took a chair in the darkness while Giles sat on the bed and turned on the table lamp to look over the map in the front of the telephone book. "I might call Wesley. Can't wake any of the children" "Children and small animals need their sleep," Angel agreed, and Giles was sure it was a joke, although one he couldn't fathom. "Well, more to the point, we can't wake their parents." "They have parents?" At a loss, Giles turned to search Angel's face. Was he serious? Had he never considered that the others had parents just as much as Buffy did? Surely he was not serious. "They have parents. All of them." Angel's face was unreadable, his eyes shadowed and the better part of his face half-covered by the backs of his fingers as they pressed meditatively to his lips. "That's good. They need them." It was surprisingly easy to walk over to Angel; Giles felt almost indifferent to the whole experience. Like an old married couple, they had an understanding, a natural rhythm together; Giles leaned over him, letting Angel remove his glasses for him and hold them as Giles brushed his upturned lips with a kiss and a sigh. With a second kiss, Giles nudged Angel's chin up with a thumb under his jaw. With a third he could taste Angel's tongue against his upper lip, and the fingers of his free hand tunneled into Angel's hair. His indifference faded rapidly. Giles twined his arms around Angel's neck, and for the first time that night, Angel reached for him, wrapping his arms around Giles' ribs as they kissed. Angel had never been an idle kisser, nor a man long content to stay passive; it was only momentarily Angel's tongue reaching up to probe between his lips before he found himself being borne down to his knees, Angel's mouth over his and his tongue dipping into Giles' open mouth. This was how it had always gone between them, and what Giles missed the most -- Angel descending, driving him down with cool touches and soft, dry words and the irresistible force of his intensity. Hungrily, Giles ran his hands along Angel's thighs as he knelt between them. "For old times' sake?" he murmurred as Angel lifted his lips from Giles' and touched them instead to Giles' forehead. "You make it sound...." "How do I make it sound?" Angel's back arched slightly as Giles' hands slid behind him. "I don't know. Do it." "Was 'unromantic' by any chance the word you wanted?" Giles asked dryly. "So help me God, Rupert, if you try to increase the romance in my life...." Bowing forward, Giles let the top of his head rest on Angel's stomach, able to sense little other than the rich scent of Angel's expensive leather. "You'll send me on my way, I'm sure." "It wasn't supposed to come out sounding quite like that." He placed a slow kiss just above Angel's belt. "I quite understand. Believe me, Angel, I'm not very keen on having you as a permanent fixture in my life, either. You require quite a lot of care and feeding. Not literally." To his surprise, Angel laughed, and not with too much tension in his voice. "No, literally, too, sometimes. You're right. I'm nothing to pine over." "I'm not pining," Giles said, a little too primly. "I'm lusting. Do you mind terribly?" "Make yourself comfortable." The sounds were one of Giles' favorite aspects of sex, particularly with Angel; no one was quieter than Angel, who did not even breathe heavily. With so little noise in the room, Giles could focus on each individual sound, from the whisp and rattle of Angel's belt unbuckling to the distinctive sound of the zipper. Angel's hand made a light rustling sound in Giles' hair, and Giles' moistened lips produced a louder, more undignified slurping sound than he anticipated as they drew in the flushed head of Angel's cock and pulled his mouth away again. "Rupert -- no, don't stop -- let me say one thing. Don't stop. And, no, that wasn't the thing. The thing is that you probably thought...I have no idea what you thought when I started seeing Buffy instead of you. No -- God, don't stop, how many languages do you want me to say it in? -- I know, you're going to tell me you didn't think anything, no illusions, no regrets. I didn't have any of those, either. But if you thought it was just sex -- it was friendship, too. It was me needing to know you, and being, actually, not that good with people." Now that he could hear Angel's low voice hovering on the verge of asking forgiveness, Giles wasn't at all sure that he wanted to hear it. Angel had been humbled enough -- chained and accused, mistrusted and abandoned. If nothing else, Angel deserved the dignity of his own past. Giles did not need his apologies more than Angel needed his pride. He ran his tongue in sworls up the underside of Angel's shaft, which silenced the vampire, and then he sucked it into his mouth, farther by an inch or two than he had managed with any man in longer than he could recall at the moment. Angel did not move, but he did reward Giles' ambition with a growl of pleasure. After a moment he did move, placing a hand on Giles' cheek and pushing him slowly away. Giles suppressed a brief rush of irritation; the sex was generally better, and life easier all around, when he let Angel have his own way. Angel rose from his chair, and Giles had to marvel. Where another man would have looked ridiculous, fully clothed all the way to his long black coat except for his leather pants shoved down around his hips and his glistening cock jutting up, Angel looked as magnificently imposing as ever, wholly secure in his preternatural charisma. For the moment, Giles was content. The coat sounded heavy as Angel tossed it across his chair -- Angel's black armor, which normally insulated him from prying eyes, a thick layer of shadow that hung off his shoulders, clinging to him with the same tenacity with which everything clung to Angel. Giles loved the way the vampire moved, each step solid and decisive, but never clumsy or abrupt; he watched rapt as Angel walked toward the bed, frowning mildly as he stared down at his own fingers unbuttoning his shirt. Angel dropped that just as casually as he had the coat, and Giles found himself as obsessed with the mandala-like intracacies of Angel's blue tattoo as he had been the first time he'd seen it. "What's the matter?" Angel asked, and Giles phased back into reality long enough to realize that Angel was completely naked now, standing in the heap of silk and leather he had just been wearing. Angel looked over his shoulder and down to where Giles still knelt, that delicate smile that rarely reached his lips playing in his eyes. "I know you miss Watching, but...." Giles managed to stand with a certain amount of grace, but he knew that he couldn't possibly emulate Angel's rangy elegance in crossing the room. Desperation being in this case the mother of ingenuity, Giles decided to cultivate another image altogether. He came at the bed from the foot instead of around the side, reaching for Angel's waist as he fell. Angel dropped down to the mattress with him, and they tussled briefly in confusion, searching for a mutually agreeable position in between kisses. It was to Giles' advantage that Angel was the sensualist of the pair, and Giles had been his lover long enough to know how to press that advantage. He pushed against Angel's shoulderblade, letting the sweat on his palm make a wide, slippery track on Angel's fair skin. With his other hand on Angel's waist to steady him, Giles put his lips to Angel's lowest vertebra, balanced lightly between the gentle curve of Angel's lower back and the swell of his buttocks. Angel hissed through his teeth, not so much at the sensation, Giles knew, but in anticipation. Prudence suggested that Giles undress himself now, since he knew well enough that as this situation escalated he would want less and less to take the time away from Angel's body. He stripped hurriedly; if Angel had a chance to think this through, he might easily decide that lying on his stomach underneath Giles was not really where he wanted to be, and this one time, Giles didn't want Angel to be in complete control. This was probably Giles' last chance to seduce the world's most unique and compelling vampire. Angel had just begun to stir restlessly as Giles shed the last of his clothing, and Giles threw him off his train of thought by digging his fingernails lightly into Angel's flank as he knelt over Angel's thighs. Angel raised his hands to the mattress, poised as if to do a push-up, and Giles leaned forward, locking an arm around Angel, his forearm against Angel's breastbone. "Angel. What good is it to have a Watcher if he can't do what he can see needs to be done?" "What is it you think needs to be done?" He drew himself lower over Angel, lips against Angel's ear. "Don't fool yourself, Angel; you're a middling actor at best." "I'll argue this with you some other time." "I'm sure you will." With Angel more or less pacified, Giles could ease back a bit, climbing the column of Angel's spine bone by bone with lips and teeth. Of course, he began to realize as he rubbed against Angel, tracing the tattoo with his thumb as he slid his other hand along Angel's side and all the way up the inside of his arm to the elbow, that he was somewhat unprepared for this, at least in the area of lubrication. Only one solution presented itself, and Giles didn't consider it particularly ideal, but he reminded himself that a man who was about to be allowed to make love to Angel had no room to complain. Giles left lazy, open-mouthed kisses between Angel's shoulderblades, pressing his chest to Angel's back. He considered it a compliment that the normally silent Angel choked out Giles' name as he worked his hand between Angel and the blanket, wrapping his fingers tightly around the base of Angel's cock. Angel surged as though he were trying to throw Giles off of him, but at the same time he was reaching out blindly to catch Giles' free hand in his and crush it in a hard grip. It was a sharper, more intense pleasure than Giles had expected, feeling each twist and lash of Angel's body underneath his as the vampire writhed with his building pleasure and its climax. Giles could watch him clear-eyed, and it warmed him to see the tension bleed out of Angel's tight posture, leaving behind a certain frail timidity; Angel was not as unbending, as controlling as he would have liked to be. He walked his fingers up Angel's stomach, soaking them in his semen. Ironic, he thought, that his fingers could feel so stiff and clumsy now as they moistened his own dick in preparation; this should be the one technique he excelled at, given how long it had been since he had anything better to do at night than practice it. But the sight of Angel, stretched out with his arms bent above his head and crossed at the wrists, was driving him mad. The indolent pose disappeared as soon as Giles slid inside him; Angel rocked back and forth as if he didn't know if he wanted to escape or be impaled deeper -- or as if setting the rhythm himself was Angel's last-ditch attempt to regain the sense that he was fucking Giles instead of the reverse. In another man it might have been irritating, but Giles was willing to admit that Angel had lost control of enough of his life as it was to make him leery of surrendering even more. He pulled back on his knees, keeping Angel's shoulders pressed close to his chest; it freed Angel slightly to drive back against Giles at his own pace. Giles sucked at the vampire's neck, buried his lips in Angel's scratchy hair, did whatever he could with his mouth to avoid saying things he might have meant once, but no longer. What he had with Angel was not love. What he had with Angel was *not* love, and never had been -- only two aging men, caught inside their own heads and their own pasts, losing the weight of the years in each other's watchful eyes. Buried in Angel, coming the way he only did with Angel, those very basic definitions blurred, becoming as muted and diffuse as the early-morning light glowing through the gaps in the curtains. What was love? A man grew up loving one woman, learned to love another later in life, got caught up in a mad love affair with one man, returned to the man he'd loved all along -- love was intricate and fleeting and convoluted, and Giles couldn't begin to fathom it after a night with no sleep, with one half of his mind twisted into knots by Buffy and her head wound, the other by Angel and his addictive beauty. What he had with Angel was not love. For the time being, he needed to hear himself say it; he would concentrate on believing it later. Angel roused himself at last from the dead collapse he had fallen into, turning his head to kiss the base of Giles' thumb. "Thanks for the room." "Yes, well. Stay as long as you like." Giles slid off to lie at Angel's side, his fingers resting lightly in the center of the tattoo. "Rupert?" "Hm?" His voice was feathered, whispery. "Where do you want to drive next? How about Las Vegas?" "Hm. I'm afraid I'm going home, Angel. And you are, too. You know that." "Let somebody else watch children die, for once. Let someone else do it." He kissed Angel's hair, just above his ear. "Neither you nor I, Angel, could possibly let someone else do it. I wish we had it in us, sometimes." Angel snorted. "I'm sure I do. Somewhere. I'm looking." Giles stroked his hair, tilting his chin against the back of Angel's head, trying with his slighter frame to shield Angel from the orange light seeping in behind them. "You'll never find it, you know." "No. I look, but I only find her." Spent and exhausted as Giles was, he was capable of getting up long enough to pull back the covers on the bed and tuck Angel between them; Angel looked a little petulant at first, as though he were about to complain about being fussed over, but he seemed to decide that he was more tired than he was aggrieved. He restrained himself to a dry, "Are you quite through?" as Giles returned to more or less his previous position at Angel's back. "Goodnight, Angel," Giles responded, in a firm tone that he hoped would discourage further banter. Angel reached for Giles, taking his wrist and arranging Giles' arm around him, and for the present, they had driven as far as they needed to go.